Willo. Tends that thou'dst speak, to the duke of Hereford? It it be so, out with it boldly, man; Quick is mine ear, to hear of good towards him. Ross. No good at all, that I can do for him; Unless you call it good, to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. North. Now, afore heaven, 'tis shame, such wrongs are borne, In him a royal prince, and many more Ross. The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes, And lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin'd not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his ancestors achiev'd with blows: More hath he spent in peace, than they in wars. Ross. The earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. Willo. The king's grown bankrupt, like a broken man. North. Reproach, and dissolution, hangeth over him. Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, North. His noble kinsman: - Most degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm: We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, And yet we strike not, but securely perish. Ross. We see the very wreck that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger now, For suffering so the causes of our wreck. North. Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death, I spy life peering; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is. Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours. Ross. Be confident to speak, Northumberland : We three are but thyself; and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold. North. Then thus:-I have from Port le Blanc, a bay In Britany, receiv'd intelligence, That Harry Hereford, Reignold lord Cobham, [The son of Richard Earl of Arundel,] That late broke from the duke of Exeter, : His brother, archbishop late of Canterbury, Quoint, All these, well furnish'd by the duke of Bretagne, Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear. Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Palace. Enter Queen, BUSHY, and BAGOT. Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad: You promis'd, when you parted with the king, To lay aside life-harming heaviness, Qucen. To please the king, I did; to please myself, I cannot do it; yet I know no cause shadows, Which show like grief itself, but are not so: not seen: Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye, As, though, in thinking, on no thought I think,Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. Bushy. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady. Queen. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd From some fore-father grief; mine is not so; For nothing hath begot my something grief; Or something hath the nothing that I grieve: 'Tis in reversion that I do possess ; But what it is, that is not yet known; what I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot. Enter GREEN. Green. God save your majesty!-and well met, gentlemen : I hope, the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland. Queen. Why hop'st thou so? 'tis better hope, he is; For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope; Then wherefore dost thou hope, he is not shipp'd? Green. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power 22, And driven into despair an enemy's hope, The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd At Ravenspurg. Queen. Now God in heaven forbid! Green. O, madam, 'tis too true: and that is worse, The lord Northumberland, his young son Henry Percy, |